


let it out

by Ceebee



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe - BDSM, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Child Abuse, Communication is Sexy, False Identity, Happy Ending, Ignored Safeword, M/M, Matt's a self-loathing little angst demon, Multi, Sexual Identity, Switching, despite all the relationship tags this is a matt/foggy fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-25
Updated: 2015-09-25
Packaged: 2018-04-20 23:04:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4805549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ceebee/pseuds/Ceebee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Matt never hits someone just because it would make him feel good, even though it would. It so would.</p>
            </blockquote>





	let it out

**Author's Note:**

> Alternate title: Matt Murdock has an identity crisis and drags everyone along with him. Including me, the author, who is sincerely sorry for this train wreck of a fic.
> 
> Started as a fill for [this](http://daredevilkink.dreamwidth.org/725.html?thread=570325#cmt570325), and then also [this](http://daredevilkink.dreamwidth.org/3230.html?thread=7252894#cmt7252894), and sort of a bit [this](http://daredevilkink.dreamwidth.org/1296.html?thread=1378576#cmt1378576), and essentially [this](http://daredevilkink.dreamwidth.org/2760.html?thread=4558792#cmt4558792), when you think about it... ??????
> 
> Thanks to all the peeps who helped me along (you know who you are <333) and especially to [marmolita](http://archiveofourown.org/users/marmolita), who beta’d this monster into coherency. For real. What a winner.

Matt’s never hits someone just because he wants to. Every punch is aimed at a person who deserves it, and that isn’t the same thing. It isn’t what Matt _aches_ for.

He fists his cock, spit on his palm, and drags roughly from root to tip. It feels nothing like the mouth he wants it to be — the throat he wants to be contracting, squeezing, choking around him — but he can imagine. 

Matt never hits someone just because it would make him feel good, even though it would. It so would.

He knows what noises a body makes when his fists come into contact with it. The crack of an open palm, the whoosh of air leaving someone’s lungs, the crunch of splintering bone. Matt groans and arches against the bedsheets, his thighs sweaty and an unpleasant prickle beneath his skin that builds and builds.

One of the men tonight had been a sub. Matt had _smelled_ it — the sweetness of his cologne a dead giveaway, not to mention the size of him. Slighter than all the others.

Still tough, though. Still up for a fight. Still a scumbag that Matt had laid into until he was wheezing blood, both eyes swollen shut.

Matt twists his head and sinks his teeth into his pillow as something in his gut wrenches, and he comes all over his fingers.

+++

“Sadistic fuck,” Foggy says under his breath, and Matt’s hands freeze over his Braille reader.

“What?”

“Huh? Oh. I’m just…I’m reading the paper. They’re talking about that masked asshole again. Apparently he put a few people into comas last night. I mean, they probably deserved it, to an extent, but seriously? He beat them to shit. And, it makes you wonder…” he trails off. Matt hears the soft press of his teeth into his lower lip.

“Makes you wonder what?” he asks, even though he’s not sure if he wants hear the answer.

God help him, his knuckles still sting.

“Well, like. The guy that came off worst was a sub — the only sub in the group. I mean…what if he’s got some bigoted agenda, you know? What if he’s just a dom trying to get his kicks?” Foggy sounds half angry, half apologetic, and Matt knows it’s all on his behalf. Because, as far as Foggy has ever been aware, Matt is a sub. _His_ sub.

“He’s not,” Matt says, and hates the way his voice sounds — like he’s not _sure_. “I bet the sub was just putting up more of a fight.”

Foggy’s quiet for a moment, and Matt knows he’s watching him closely, probably wondering whether to argue or not. Maybe he thinks Matt’s living in some kind of fantasy, where superheroes never take advantage, and he doesn’t want to disrupt that. “Yeah, okay, buddy,” he says, eventually. Matt fights the urge to snap something in half.

+++

Once, Stick told him to let it all out.

The sub — some low-level drug dealer, a kid who peddled weed out of his backpack, for fuck’s sake — had been in the middle of the basement floor, tied to a chair. 

Matt could hear his heartbeat thrumming too fast in his chest, his breathing quick and panicked. He could smell his unbranded shampoo and _taste_ his sweat on the air, a horrible, unmistakable tang of salt. 

_You’re a dom, aren’t you? Come on, kid, I know you want to. Let him have it. He deserves it._

The kid had found something in him, then; a spark of courage. A blind old man and a little boy? He’d laughed, shaky, and spat on the ground in front of him. 

It was a challenge.

_Let it all out. I know you’ve dreamed about it. Think I don’t notice what you stink like in the morning? What you do to yourself in bed at night? Think I don’t know that you’re imagining pretty little sluts like him—_

Matt had been thirteen, and humiliation turned to ice in his stomach. Flooded him, freezing cold. His hands curled into fists.

Stick hadn’t been wrong.

When Matt was finished, the kid’s body was different — it made different sounds, creaky and sputtering, like rusty plumbing. Matt was panting, satisfaction clawing at his insides, even as bile worked its way up his throat.

He came out as a sub the day after Stick left and it was a lie that no one had trouble believing. Everyone had always assumed...

Matt was just so _small_. Fragile. Blind. Of course he wasn’t a dom. Of course.

+++

Foggy kisses the side of Matt’s head.

“Ready to go home?”

Matt hums. If Foggy’s asking, it means he doesn’t want to be alone tonight. “Yours or mine?”

“Mine. My fridge actually has food in it.”

“Good point.” Matt gets to his feet and feels for Foggy’s elbow with one hand, gripping his cane with the other. They say goodbye to Karen, with Foggy adding a plea for her not to stay too late, and make their way out of the office.

Later, in Foggy’s bed, Matt asks: “Doesn’t it ever bother you?”

He’s tucked against Foggy’s side, with Foggy’s fingers playing through his hair, his breath warm against his temple. Aftercare: it's sort of Foggy's forte. “Doesn’t what bother me?”

“You know…how you never get to sub?”

Foggy pauses, then pulls back, presumably so he can get a good look at Matt’s face. “Are you about to get biphobic on my ass, Murdock?”

“No,” Matt touches Foggy’s arm in quiet apology. “I’m just curious.”

Foggy makes a thoughtful noise, and goes back to petting Matt’s hair. “Well…no, basically. It doesn’t bother me — I’d be perfectly fine to never sub again. I’m happy either way.”

“So you wouldn’t _mind_ being dommed? You’d enjoy it?”

“Well, yeah, sure,” Foggy sounds confused. “You know I’m a switch, Matt. I like both. But I’m in a relationship with _you_ , you weirdo. Why are you even asking me this stuff?”

Matt presses his palm to Foggy’s naked chest, then creeps his fingers up and over the slopes of his shoulders. He imagines the hot rise of welts beneath his touch, the rough slick of bloody grazes.

“No reason,” he says.

+++

Matt has a recurring dream that’s half memory, half sick, twisted fantasy. Whenever he wakes from it, there’s a moment when he feels like rushing to the bathroom and heaving into the toilet bowl. He’s also usually hard, his dick curving towards his stomach. _Sick_.

In the dream, everything’s the same — a sub tied to a chair, pounding hearts, spit on the floor, cold rushing through Matt’s veins. 

But the sub isn’t a kid. It’s Foggy.

+++

There are only so many secrets you can keep from your best friend. Partner. Boyfriend. Ex? Maybe.

There are only so many secrets you can keep before you’re not keeping any, because you fucked up, collapsed in your own apartment, a dead weight covered in blood, and obviously not just Matt Murdock anymore. Obviously something else, something terrifying, something you never should have hidden in the first place.

Not from him. 

Foggy’s yelling in Matt’s face and he’s crying, too. “Was anything ever real between us?”

 _Don’t say that, Foggy. Please, don’t ask me that._

“Yes.” 

“Are you even blind? Fuck, are you even a sub?”

 _Don’t ask me that._

Matt’s mouth is trembling out of shape. “I’m sorry,” he tries. “Please, Foggy, I’m so—”

“Answer the fucking questions, Matt.”

“I’m—” Matt’s sobbing, casting around for the right thing to say. “I am blind. No, no light perception. But my other senses, they compensate.”

He wonders if he imagines that the thundering of Foggy’s heart slows, just a fraction. “And? What about the other thing?”

“I don’t want you to leave me,” Matt says, voice hoarse. “Fog, I don’t—”

_I never wanted to hurt you. Not really. Not like this._

“That’s not what I asked,” Foggy says. He sounds cold, now. Distant. He’s drifting out of reach. “I have to get out of here. I’ll…I’ll call you, tomorrow, maybe. I don’t know. I just need to get out of here.”

Matt repeats his name a few times and tries to get up off the sofa, only to be dragged back by the pain in his own body, wounds complaining at the stretch. Foggy slams the door shut behind him.

+++

Matt swishes the cane against his own thigh. He’s standing, and his body berates him for it, but he doesn’t care. He swings a little harder, but it still doesn’t even sting.

He keeps it in his closet, along with rope, cuffs, clamps, a fucking _bullwhip_ , as if there’ll ever be an occasion for him to use any of it. As if Matt will ever have the kind of control it takes to stop once he starts.

He’d bought it all anyway, just for the thrill of owning it, however poor a substitute that is for the thrill of having someone submit beneath it. 

The cane thwacks against his leg, bringing with it a sharp burn. He sighs and tosses it across the room, before limping back to his bed. Matt doesn’t get off on pain. Not his own.

More’s the pity.

+++

It takes time, but they finally reach a point where they can talk without bitterness making them want to gag. Foggy moves in and out of Matt's space and Matt can almost imagine that the sense of awkward distaste between them had never existed. When Foggy kisses Matt again, at last, his lips are so soft.

“I can get my head around the secret identity thing,” Foggy tells him. They’re sitting on Matt’s couch, their fingers brushing together. “Like, loads of superheroes have them, and I know it’s for a reason, even if I don’t get why you never told _me_.”

Matt ducks his head. He’s tired of this argument that goes round and round and round. But then Foggy presses on.

“What I don’t get is you pretending to be a sub. Like, that’s fucking _weird_ , Matt. Just…you were straight up _pretending_ , it wasn’t like you wanted to transition or anything. And people…people don’t do that. Subs pretending to be doms, I understand. But…”

“You don’t need to understand it,” Matt says.

“Uh, yeah, actually, I do. I don’t know if you noticed Matt, but we haven’t had sex in a really fucking long time. And when we _were_ having sex, you probably hated it. Which is a problem. A problem that involves _me_ , so if you could stop being a dick and at least try to explain, that would be great.”

“I didn’t _hate_ sex with you,” Matt protests, weakly. “I just…sex has never been…it’s not _you_. I’ve never had the kind of sex that I want. That’s just how it has to be.”

Foggy goes still, and his hand leaves Matt’s. “You mean…are you saying that you’re a dom who’s never _dommed_ anyone?”

Matt grimaces, teeth momentarily bared. “I don’t know. Have you seen what that Daredevil guy does to subs?”

Air hisses out between Foggy’s teeth, and before Matt can register what’s going to happen, he’s slapped across the face. 

The sound of it is shocking, and afterwards Foggy’s breathing is uneven and choppy, like he can’t believe what he’s just done. 

“Foggy—”

“That shit isn’t funny, Matt. Those…you _beat_ them till they were…you broke their bones, put them in comas, Matt, you—”

“I’m a sadistic fuck,” Matt says, and he hears the shift of muscles in Foggy’s face when he flinches.

“When I said that, I didn’t—”

“Know it was me,” Matt finishes for him. “But you still meant it.” He lifts a hand to his face, more curious than anything, and feels the heat radiating from his cheek. Foggy’s never hit him before, not even in bed. It isn’t really how Foggy operates, as a person, as a dom. It’s how Matt knows he deserved it.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” Foggy says. “Matt, seriously, I’m sorry. That wasn’t okay. I’m…are you alright?”

“I’ve had worse,” Matt says ruefully, letting his hand fall away again.

“Right.”

“Sorry.”

“I thought…” Foggy’s gone back to playing with Matt’s fingers, tugging on them gently. “I thought we could do this, you know? Go back to how things were. But…man, I just _hit_ you,” a startled laugh bubbles up and out. Matt feels nauseous. “I hit you, and all you want is to hit _me_.”

“That’s not true, Fog,” Matt tries.

“Oh, come on,” Foggy says, soft but incredulous. “I know you’ve thought about it.”

_I know you want to. I know you’ve dreamed about it._

Matt jerks out of Foggy’s grip. “Maybe you’re right,” he says. “Maybe we can’t do this.”

Foggy’s heart skips and his breath hitches, but when he speaks it’s calm. Steady. Sad. “Maybe we can’t.”

+++

There's a gang that's been operating from a basement near Matt's favourite Thai restaurant — the one he can only really afford if the bill is split unevenly.

Matt thinks that taking them out might sate the itch under his skin, but when he arrives he finds six doms sitting around a table that's mottled with cigarette burns, and by the time he's finished with them the itch is somehow _worse_.

His conversation with Foggy clangs discordantly around his head.

_That shit isn't funny._

_I'm a sadistic fuck._

Near the restaurant is a bar that Matt’s never had real cause to go into. He’s heard Karen talking about it once or twice — it’s usually where she’s been the night before she comes into work looking tired but happy, with the lingering scent of someone else’s cologne or perfume on her skin.

That's where he's headed.

+++

The bartender introduces himself as Andy as he slides Matt's drink towards him, on a napkin.

Matt quirks an eyebrow, running his fingers across it and feeling the indentations of a number.

"This you?" he asks.

"That's me." There's a smile in his voice. Matt tilts his head, curious, allowing his senses to size him up. He's broad-shouldered with a chest like a barrel, and everything eases down into a slender waist. 

"I'm not interested in subbing," Matt says, and it comes out in a rush, setting his insides alight with nerves. He doesn't do this. He _shouldn't_ do this.

But Matt's so tired, of everything. Why can't he have it easy, just this once? 

"Good," Andy says. "I am."

Matt lets out a breath he hadn't realised he was holding. "Okay. I'll...I'll call?"

"Sure. Or if you just stick around another half hour — my shift ends at twelve."

"Oh," Matt licks his lips. Andy doesn't _seem_ very breakable and that's...that's good. "Yeah. Okay."

+++

"Tell me your limits."

They're at Matt's apartment and Andy's turned on the lights, taken off his shoes. He pads around the living room and Matt can hear him running his hands along the edge of the couch, pressing his fingers to the window. Imagines him craning his neck to look up at the billboard. 

Foggy had told Matt to do the same thing when they first got together: _I need to know your limits, Matt._ It's what good doms do, ones that care, ones that have control. It's what Foggy did for Matt and it's what Matt will do for Andy.

"I like pain," Andy says. "But no drawing blood or any kind of lasting damage. Don't fucking piss on me. And wear a condom."

"That's all?"

Andy shrugs — Matt can hear his jacket rustle. "It's only one night. How crazy you thinking of getting, dude? I'll use my safeword if I don't like something."

"What is your safeword?"

Another shrug. "Traffic lights — green for go, yellow for slow, red for no."

"Alright. You have any questions before we start?" Matt wonders if the racing of his heart shows on his face. _His safeword is 'red'. Remember his fucking safeword. No blood. Red. No blood, no lasting damage. Red, red, red._

"Well..." Andy sounds hesitant for the first time, and Matt instantly knows where this is going.

"Don't worry about my aim," he says. "I'm blind, but I've heard it's pretty impressive."

Andy laughs and it's definitely relieved. "Right. I'm guessing you get asked about that a lot?"

Matt supposes he would if Andy wasn't the first sub he'd ever gotten this far with. 

Andy should know that. Matt should tell him.

"Yeah, a fair amount," Matt says.

"Sorry. I didn't wanna be rude or—"

"It's okay." Andy falls quiet, and Matt takes a breath, grounding. "How about you kneel for me?"

Andy's pulse quickens. "Okay."

+++

It all feels too good:

Matt grabbing a fistful of Andy’s hair, yanking his head back, raking his nails down his neck hard enough to raise the skin.

Andy saying, "Green," and Matt hearing the truth of it in his heartbeat, however fast it's pounding.

Matt's cock hitting the back of Andy's throat, choking him. Andy forgetting to keep his hands behind his back, fingers moving to grasp at Matt's thighs.

Matt pulling back so Andy can gasp, "Green," before Matt backhands him, tells him to get back into position.

Andy on all fours, moaning out a mixture of _sir_ s and _Matt_ s and _please_ s. Matt slapping his ass and roughly kneading the skin, pinching and digging. Smacking him again and again until Andy's face is pressed into the pillow, his body tensing and relaxing with each hit, his words muffled and broken and tearful.

Matt's belt being unbuckled, the sound of it snapping through the air.

Matt wanting to hit him, and then hit him harder.

Even when Andy croaks, "Red."

Matt not hearing past the roaring in his ears, his own throbbing dick, the perfect sting in his palms, the heat coming off Andy's body.

_Too fucking good._

Matt can't stop.

He turns the belt in his hands without even thinking, gets the leather curled around his knuckles, because it feels right like that — like it’s part of his skin. Then he swings, and the prong of the buckle clinks against the metal frame before it connects with the beaten flesh of Andy’s thigh. 

Matt hears skin tear — “Red, fuck, red, _Matt_!” — and it’s like the sound a plum makes when he digs in his thumbnail and juice trickles down towards his wrist. Then, he smells blood, rising into the air, familiar and coppery, and suddenly he’s moving as if being pulled — a violent wrench of muscles that sends him stumbling backwards.

“Andy,” Matt raises a hand, and Andy scrambles away from him until Matt hears him hit the wall. “Andy, I’m sorry, let me —”

“Don’t come near me,” Andy says, and it comes out stilted and breathless. “I need…give me a minute, don’t fucking come near me.”

The world is shrinking. Matt feels his senses narrowing down to a point, like everything’s being rammed into a too-small space. “You’ve got to let me help, please, I didn’t mean to…”

He can’t breathe. The smell of blood lingers, overwhelming. He’d fucked up. His dick is still out, wet with precome and Andy’s saliva. It’s…it’s… 

He can’t _breathe_.

“Matt? Jesus fucking christ, Matt—”

Andy walks back towards him in a rush that’s probably driven more by instinct than anything, and the second he’s got his hands on Matt he’s steering him towards the couch, shoving him down onto it and bending him double so that his forehead is pressed to his knees.

“Don’t pass out, oh my God.” His voice shakes, and Matt desperately tries to suck air into his lungs. He feels like he’s going to throw up. Andy’s helping _him_. This is all so, so wrong.

“You’re bleeding,” he says to the floor, stomach churning. “Andy.”

“It’s…it’s not much. But. My safeword, Matt. What the _fuck_ —? I’m. I’m calling my sister. If she sees you she’ll fucking kill you, so I’m going to wait for her outside. Who should I get for you?”

“What?”

“I’m not leaving you here by yourself. Jesus. What’s _wrong_ with you, man?” He sounds how Matt feels — thrown off balance, panic building. “What the fuck kinda dom are you? Did you even know what you were doing?”

 _No_ , Matt thinks, and it sears through his mind, hysterical.

“Foggy. He’s…” Matt rubs his palms distractedly against his shins. He doesn’t want Foggy to be here. He doesn’t need — he doesn’t _deserve_ —

But Andy’s already grabbed Matt’s phone from the nightstand, and he scrolls through the contacts before Matt can get out another word.

“ _Hey, Matt? What’s up?_ ” Foggy’s voice is tinny on the other end, already a little tense with worry. It’s late. Foggy probably thinks this is something to do with Daredevil, and the guilt that’s crowding inside Matt’s chest somehow manages to intensify.

“I’m with Matt. He told me to call you — we just had a scene and he needs you to come over.”

 _“What?”_ Foggy sounds taken aback, confused. _“A scene? Where?”_

“We’re at his apartment, but I’m leaving in a minute.”

 _“Hang on.”_ Anger, now. _“What the hell did you —”_

“Matt ignored my safeword and now he’s hyperventilating on his couch, okay?”

_“Oh. Oh my God. Shit. Are you alright?”_

“I’ve got someone coming to get me.”

_“Okay. Tell…tell Matt I’m on my way, please.”_

Andy hangs up and tosses Matt’s phone onto the bed. “Your sub’s coming,” he says.

“He’s not my sub.”

“Lucky him.”

Matt hears himself choke, insides turning cold. “Andy—”

“Don’t call me, okay? I…I get that you feel bad. But don’t call me. Or come by the bar. Seriously.”

“Okay,” Matt whispers, but Andy’s already left.

+++

It seems like both an age and no time at all passes before Matt’s front door — left unlocked behind Andy — opens again, and the familiar sounds of Foggy’s footsteps filter through the apartment.

“Matt?” he says, and Matt answers with a quiet moan, bitten off against his own kneecaps. He laces his hands through the hair at his nape and tugs. He wants to disappear. He wants Foggy gone. 

But, something bitter inside him reasons, the things that Matt wants are rarely good for anyone. 

“Christ, Matty, come on.” Foggy walks over to the couch, and he is unbearably gentle — so much more than Matt deserves — uncurling his fingers, urging Matt back upright. Before he can tilt sideways against Foggy, though, hands come up to meet him, forcing him to stay where he is. “You want to tell me what the hell’s happened?”

Matt’s tongue feels loose, but his mouth sticky. He tries to swallow. He says, “I fucked up.”

He can tell that Foggy’s scared, but he’s not sure whether it’s _of_ him or _for_ him, or which option he prefers. Both are bad. 

“You should go,” he says, voice hollow. “Seriously Foggy, I don’t need—”

“Shut up,” Foggy says, and Matt’s next words die in his throat. “You — I get a call from some sub that you’ve — I don’t _know_ , what — and I come here because — I come here, even though me and you are — and you just tell me to _leave_? No, Matt. _No_.”

“You’re angry,” Matt says, blankly, because he’d known it was what Foggy _should_ feel, but Foggy usually has a way of going against all expectations. 

“I’m _pissed_ , Matt, yeah. How about it? You shit all over our relationship with your stupid lies, and then you go pick up the first sub you see to try and, I don’t know, prove yourself? Is that what it was? Proving yourself by domming a _stranger_ , without any goddamn experience, you…I…I’ve been right _here_ , Matt.” The anger’s still there, but it’s morphing, Foggy’s voice cracking. “We could’ve tried to work this out together, we could’ve…I could’ve tried subbing for you or…but you just. You just did _you_ — classic Matt fucking Murdock, going it alone. Classic Foggy fucking Nelson, left on the sidelines like an asshole to watch his stupid,” his hands curl into fist on his knees, “freaking,” he presses them to his forehead and hunches over, “ _best friend_ get hurt because he can’t get it into his head that other people _give a shit_ about him.”

“Foggy.” Matt doesn’t know what to say. His chest still hurts with panic, his breath is still slightly short, and he’s twitching towards Foggy and away again, like some shitty, broken mechanism. 

Foggy gets to his feet and goes to the kitchen. Matt hears him open the fridge, feels the suction of cold. When he speaks, he sounds marginally calmer. “Tell me what happened. Did…” A pause. A strained intake of breath. “Did you rape him?”

“ _No_ ,” Matt says, and Foggy’s shoulders relax a fraction as he pulls out a beer, fiddles with the bottle opener. “No, I — he told me not to draw blood. But. I was using my belt, and the buckle…I _wanted_ to. I wanted him to feel it.”

Foggy sniffs and runs the back of his hand over his eyes, under his nose. And that’s what does it, in the end — hearing Foggy on the verge of tears. Something in Matt’s chest splits open, and whatever’s inside rises, sickening, until Matt’s hunched back over, struggling not to rock back and forth on the couch.

“God, Matt,” Foggy says, but Matt can’t answer. When he opens his mouth, his throat seizes around a gag. The beer cap clatters to the countertop in the kitchen, and Foggy walks back, drops into his recently vacated space. “We gotta stop doing this, huh? Only so many times we can wind up having breakdowns in your living room.”

Matt chokes, almost laughs, ugly and wet, then curls up even tighter. Ridiculous, unstoppable. 

Foggy’s free hand reaches across the gulf between them, and lands between Matt’s shoulder blades. He sounds exhausted. “Alright, buddy. Alright.”

 _Let it out_ , he doesn’t say. _Let it all out_.

+++

When Matt wakes, he’s in his bed. His fingers trail absently over the sheets as he lets memories from the night before resurface, and he listens, pressing outwards with his senses until he can hear Foggy in the next room, and smell coffee being brewed.

Matt had offered to sleep on the couch more than once, but Foggy had just snorted, — _Go to bed, Matt_ — before grabbing the spare blanket from Matt’s closet and laying down, brooking no further discussion. Privately, Matt had just been relieved to escape his presence, because there is only so long he can spend being exposed to someone like that before he starts to feel raw. Crawling beneath his covers had felt like recovering a layer of skin. 

He’d still fallen asleep shivering, though. 

“Morning,” he says, once he’s forced his limbs to coordinate, and made his way out of his room. 

There’s the sound of clattering, Foggy swearing. “Jesus, you scared me. Uh. Morning.”

“Sorry,” Matt says. He feels awkward in a way he doesn’t usually, around Foggy. He hates it, how they’ve been recently, never knowing quite where they stand. “Any of that for me?”

“Um. Sure, yeah, of course.” Foggy slides a mug across the counter, and Matt walks over to take it. He doesn’t need to try it to know that it’s sweeter than he likes.

He sips quietly, sunlight coming through the window and playing against his profile, and centres his focus on Foggy. He thinks about what he wants to say — it’s been waiting on his tongue all night, ready to trip off at the slightest of prompting, but now it feels heavy, like it wants to stay in his mouth forever. 

Foggy’s leaning back against Matt’s cabinets, his palms starting to sweat around his coffee cup. His heart’s been beating a little faster ever since Matt entered the room. Then, his breathing changes in that way it does, and Matt knows he’s about to speak.

“Spit it out, man.”

“What?”

Foggy sighs, irritable. “You’ve got that look on that face, like you want to say something. So, spit it out.”

 _Oh_. Matt forgets sometimes that a lack of enhanced senses doesn’t mean that other people can’t read him. Especially Foggy. 

He’d left his glasses in his room, but suddenly wishes that he hadn’t. Maybe it was his eyes that gave him away.

“ _Matt_ —” Foggy says, exasperated, and Matt feels himself being toppled over the edge.

“I could be your sub again,” he says. And there it is. A statement that’s been maturing overnight, now hanging in the air between them. 

For a moment, Foggy goes still. Then he says, the words easing their way reluctantly out of his mouth, “Matt, that’s…I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Why not?” Matt asks, spurred on by the fact that Foggy hasn’t said _no_. “Foggy, you wanted to know why I pretend to be a sub, and it’s…last night is why, okay? Because I _can’t_ let stuff like that happen.”

“But, Matt,” Foggy says, and it comes out like the verbal equivalent of someone wringing their hands. “You just said it yourself! You _pretend_.”

“ _So what_?” Matt slams his mug down on the counter, not even sure where his anger or frustration is coming from, but _feeling_ it, writhing below his skin. “It’s not like I _hate_ it. It’s not…it’s not _ideal_ , but neither is the fact that a sub left my apartment last night _bleeding_.”

“Matt,” Foggy says, and Matt feels his shoulders slump at the tone of his voice — quiet and sad. “We broke up. Me and you, we…we talked, and we broke up.”

“I know.”

“And it was because of this all this _shit_.”

“ _I know_.”

Foggy plays with his coffee cup. His nails dance distractedly against the china. “I…maybe we’d be able to make it work if you were a switch, but…I mean. Are you, maybe? A switch?” He suddenly sounds hopeful, and Matt feels the corners of his mouth turn downwards. 

“I don’t think it’s as simple as that, Foggy.”

“So, what are you saying, then?” Foggy asks, and frustration is edging its way back into his voice. “You want to sub just…just because it’s easier? What would our relationship even _be_ , Matt? A fucking…a bit of _convenience_? Because, if I’m domming you it means you can’t end up in a relationship where you beat someone up? Because we’re a safe fucking bet?”

“No, that’s not what I’m—”

“ _Why_?” Foggy says, explosive, like he’s packing everything he has into the word. “Why should you have to settle for something that’s less than ideal? Why should _I_ have to? I don’t…I don’t _want_ that, Matt. I don’t want to be with someone who just…who uses me as some kind of prop for their own self-denial, or, or _whatever_ this crap is that’s going on with you. Surprisingly enough, domming loses a lot of its appeal for me if the sub I'm with doesn't actually wanna sub.”

Disappointment forms knots in Matt’s stomach, and he knows it shows on his face, in the rapid blinking of his eyes. He doesn’t have to say anything for Foggy to suddenly deflate with a sigh. 

“This — Matt, this is the last thing I want. The last thing,” he says.

“Yeah,” Matt says, even while ‘ _No_ ’ clamours against the roof of his mouth. He feels the sudden need to sit down, but fights it, grabbing the countertop with one hand. 

“I just think you need time to figure this out, you know? What it is you want. And…and if you come to me and say that being my sub will make you happy then…then we can try it again. And if it’s something else, then we can try that too. But you can’t lie to me anymore, Matt. Please don’t do that to me again.”

“I won’t,” Matt says, almost too quickly. He knows how desperate it sounds, and takes a breath, tries again: “I wouldn’t.”

Foggy leans forward, then; a sudden, fierce presence. “I’m not going anywhere. You’re still my best friend. This isn’t…when I leave here, that’s not me _walking out_ on you, okay? Tell me you understand that.”

Matt’s heart stutters. He passes a hand over his face, rubbing ineffectually at his eyes. “Yeah. I understand.”

He can’t tell whether or not Foggy believes him. He can’t tell whether it matters — either way, Foggy is putting his cup in the sink, walking into the living room to grab his jacket. Saying something…something…Matt answering vaguely. Yes, he’ll see Foggy at work tomorrow. Yes, bright and early. Yes, he remembers they’re meeting the new client at one. 

Small talk, all the way to the door.

And then: “Take care of yourself.”

Matt just about manages to hitch a smile onto his face. “You too.”

+++

It would have taken longer — Matt, figuring it out. He tends to let things chase themselves in circles in his head until he’s dizzy with trying to keep up, and can’t quite tell up from down anymore. Usually, the only thing that’s ever certain is the faint undercurrent of guilt. Forever to be relied upon, forever _there_.

So, if they hadn’t followed Foggy home from work two months later...hadn’t jumped him before he could fish out the keys to his apartment...it definitely would have taken longer. 

Matt hears it from three blocks away, where he’s prowling across the rooftops of Hell’s Kitchen, just searching for something to _do_. It’s been a quiet week, comparatively, and Matt’s been waiting for something to happen, with every slow night nudging him closer to the edge. 

When Foggy’s shout reaches his ears, it feels like comeuppance. 

He runs, flat out, feeling the burn in his muscles and the hot surge of blood in his veins. He is single-minded. 

He makes it in under five minutes.

They’ve got Foggy cornered in the alley alongside his apartment block, and it’s just one guy, but Matt can smell the metal of a blade, and it makes something inside him — something wounded and furious and scared — it makes it roar. 

Foggy isn’t anyone else’s to hurt. 

Matt’s body _sings_ , an ebb and flow of power, and he lunges. Gets his fingers around the man’s wrist and wrenches until he hears a _crack_ , a broken scream, the blade skidding away. His elbow sinks into the man’s stomach; the heel of his hand crunches against his nose. 

He could do this all night. All fucking night.

“Ma— _Daredevil_ ,” Foggy catches himself from revealing Matt’s name just in time, and Matt’s concentration flickers away from the man who’s starting to loll in his grip. “Leave him. He’s just another damn mugger.”

But Matt can’t leave him. He doesn’t want to. Foggy’s _shaking_ from fear and adrenaline, and that’s this man’s fault. Matt can’t let it go. His fingers tighten on the man’s shirt — Matt’s ready to slam him back into the wall.

“ _Stop_ ,” Foggy says, and...and his heart is still beating way too fast, but his _voice_...Matt knows that tone. It’s the one Foggy used to take with him when they were in bed and he was really getting into it, pinning Matt’s hands above his head and ordering him to spread his legs wider, to take more.

The one that Matt had never been able resist bending beneath.

“Let go of him,” Foggy says. He takes a step closer, close enough that he could reach out and touch Matt, if he wanted. “Right now.”

And Matt _does_. He just...opens up his hands, and the man falls to the ground like a sack of potatoes, his body landing with a heavy, muffled _thump_. 

“Good,” Foggy says. He lets out a slow breath. “That’s good, M— ugh. Is he conscious?”

Matt listens automatically, hears the slower than average pulse. “No.”

“Thank God. I can’t call you ‘Daredevil’ and keep a straight face.”

Matt makes a noise, noncommittal, trying to sort through the mess inside his own head. He can still feel residue anger bubbling inside him, along with an odd, almost smothering sense of calm. It’s similar to those few seconds he has before panic attacks, but he doesn’t think that’s what’s happening this time.

“Matt,” Foggy says, and now he does touch him, turning him carefully. “You did good there, buddy.” 

Matt runs his hands up over Foggy’s sides, checking him for injury without even thinking. It’s like someone’s flicked a switch; set him on autopilot. 

“I’m alright,” Foggy tells him, like he understands. He steps closer, and fits himself against Matt’s chest, and it’s such a damn _relief_ to have him there, where Matt’s arms can shield him. Foggy repeats, “You did real good,” and Matt knows that they’ve overcome some kind of hurdle, here. That he’s done something that makes Foggy pleased and happy.

He knows that, and he takes it.

+++

Matt makes his way back to Foggy's after dropping the man off on the steps of the hospital. He knows he should probably just go home, but he feels off kilter in the unpleasant, sinking way that signals the onset of a drop. Which is ridiculous — what had just happened could hardly be considered a scene. Matt getting into a fight, and Foggy telling him to quit it.

Sounds a bit like the average Tuesday, to Matt.

But Foggy had asked Matt if he wanted to stay at his place, and Matt had said yes without really thinking about it. So, he pretty much legs it back across the Kitchen, scales Foggy's fire escape, and climbs in through his living room window.

"That was quick," Foggy notes, as Matt drops silently onto his feet. "Is he alright?"

Matt shrugs and pulls off his cowl, throwing it onto the coffee table. "He will be."

Foggy appraises him for a second. "Tired?" he guesses.

Matt wonders how obvious it is, and then yawns so widely that his jaw cracks. There's the answer to that then: pretty damn obvious.

Foggy chuckles. "Alright, Murdock. To bed with you."

"You sure? I can—” Matt breaks off, not certain of what he had been intending to say. They're creeping into the early hours of the morning; it's not as if Foggy's got things he needs to be doing, let alone things Matt can help out with.

It takes him a moment to realise that what he's doing is stalling. He doesn't particularly want to go to sleep. More specifically, he doesn't want to be alone in a room without Foggy. Not right now, with this uncomfortable pressure in his chest.

Foggy sees through him, though. He can be good at that.

"Neither of us should be sleeping on the couch tonight," he says. "I've heard that beds are the best option for the traumatised."

Matt snorts. "You don't seem all that traumatised, Fog."

"That's because I have a naturally very cool, collected persona," Foggy says, primly. Then he relaxes, body gestures becoming broad and open in a way that Matt can detect through the buffeting of the air and the sound of shifting fabric. "It's a double bed. Plenty of room."

Matt hesitates. He likes Foggy's bed; he likes how big it is, the way it smells, even the mismatched patchwork of materials that make up the different sheets and blankets. Mostly, right now, he likes how easy Foggy has made it for him to say, "Yeah. Yeah, alright."

"Cool." Foggy claps his hands together, and that's that. "Lemme go find you some jammies."

Matt ends up laying in front of Foggy, swamped in one of Foggy's old t-shirts and a worn pair of sweatpants. It's so much after weeks of studiously _not_ being overly affectionate or hands on with each other, that Matt feels slightly overwhelmed. But he curls into Foggy's warmth anyway, allowing his hands, balled into loose fists, to touch Foggy's chest.

"This okay?" He asks, after a few minutes.

"Yeah," Foggy says. Then he moves, and Matt finds himself tugged a little nearer, his head tucked beneath Foggy's chin. Instantly, he feels himself ease up from the inside out, like someone has lit a flame in his belly and the warmth is diffusing pleasantly, rolling through his limbs. "How about this?"

"Mm," Matt mumbles. No more talking.

Sleep. Sleep is good.

He feels fingers play lightly through his hair. The soft rumble in Foggy's chest as he talks. "You know," he says, quietly, as Matt drifts on the very brink. "Maybe it is that simple."

And then everything fades to static.

+++

It takes three months — three months, where every evening that Matt isn’t out being Daredevil, he’s in being Matt Murdock: Dom in Training.

Well. It never really feels like _training_ — not when it mostly involves Foggy getting on his knees for him, or asking Matt to kiss him ( _With tongue, Matt. Come on, give it to me._ ), or putting Matt’s hands around his throat and telling him how hard to squeeze.

And ‘dom’ is probably stretching it a bit, too. 

Foggy says that Matt takes orders better than anyone else he’s ever met. Then, one night, Matt tells Foggy to put his hands behind his back and, _Just because I can’t see doesn’t mean you’re allowed to stare at the floor. Look at my face._

Later, Foggy pulls up articles on switching on his laptop, snaps the earphones over Matt’s head, and Matt sits there for the better part of a day.

Switching. Not something Matt’s ever considered for himself, before. Stick had told him he was a dom; Matt had never imagined that he would be allowed to enjoy aspects of both.

Luckily, Foggy’s got a good enough imagination for the both of them.

+++

It takes three months for Matt to tell him. He does it over the phone, one Saturday morning. He’s slightly hungover; muzzy in a tongue-loosening kind of way.

 _When I was thirteen,_ he starts. His voice is detached. He feels oddly removed, as if he’s finally letting something go that had never belonged with him in the first place.

Foggy listens to the whole thing in silence, and then he asks to come round. 

_Sure._

When he arrives, he emanates pent up anger, mixed with concern. 

“Matt…” he says, shifting from foot to foot. “That _bastard_.”

Matt laughs despite himself. There’s a lightness in his chest. Then, he lets Foggy pull him into a hug on his doorstep.

+++

They get better. They get _good_.

Matt doesn’t lose control around Foggy, because he _can’t_. Not with the way Foggy talks to him, the way Matt answers, the way they just seem to fit, better than they ever did before.

And sure, Foggy can’t take as much as Matt would like — he shies away from anything too heavy that Matt wants to try — but he’s got the answer for that, too.

+++

His name’s Jamal and he’s one of Foggy’s friends, because Foggy is friends with everyone.

“Hey,” he says. His voice is unremarkable and, in that way, pleasant. Like undisturbed water. 

Matt stretches out his hand and Jamal takes it in a firm, warm grip. “Hi. I’m Matt.”

“Yeah, I figured,” he says, and Matt appreciates the cockiness in a way that pools hot and low in his belly.

“Jamal,” Foggy says. The hint of warning in his voice makes Matt’s mouth water.

Jamal shifts and Matt tracks how his position changes — he ducks his head, crosses his hands loosely behind his back. It’s not anything overt, especially in this cafe where there are a number of subs kneeling at their doms' feet, but the message is still clear. 

Matt smirks. “Take a seat.”

They’re not leaving anything to chance. Foggy lays everything out in the same way that he presents evidence in court — with clarity, and appropriate levels of humour — while Matt listens, both to him, and Jamal. He hears at which points Jamal’s pulse increases, when his interest spikes, when his instincts to submit are most prevalent and he fidgets a little in his chair. 

It’s at these moments that Matt chips in, probing further, just to see if they can’t get Jamal to really squirm. Details are added, limits are discussed, and the nature of their dynamics are expounded upon. It puts Matt at an ease he hadn’t thought would ever exist, for him.

“You’ll be subbing for both of us,” Foggy says. “But Matt will be referring to me throughout the scene.” 

Matt leans forward and asks, even though he already knows what the answer will be, “Are you interested?”

“ _Fuck_ yes.”

+++

They go to Foggy’s apartment. It had been something he and Foggy talked about for a while before coming to a decision — whether it would be better for Matt to be in a more familiar space or not. In the end, they’d agreed that they should be somewhere that put Matt at a slight disadvantage to Foggy. A subtle, unobtrusive reminder of the lines Matt isn’t allowed to cross — the boundaries he is terrified of overstepping.

Foggy’s cleared all of the junk out of his room to make space for them, and Matt makes a show of feeling his way around, more to put Jamal at ease than anything. No one wants to scene with a guy who doesn’t know where the hell he is. 

“Matt,” Foggy says, once Matt’s finished his circuit of the room.

“Mm?”

Foggy grabs his hand and pulls him so that they’re standing, toe to toe, and then he kisses him. It’s that new kind of kiss — the type Matt’s still getting used to — where Matt doesn’t fight to sink beneath it. Doesn’t just give in to Foggy’s tongue licking into his mouth. He presses back instead, tangling his fingers in Foggy’s hair and pulling hard, a groan building in his chest at the quiet noise Foggy makes, the way he caves and lets Matt lead.

By the door, Jamal adjusts his slacks, and Matt finds himself grinning into Foggy’s mouth. 

“You enjoying yourself over there?” he asks, and slides his hands down to grab Foggy’s ass, just because he can. Foggy grunts, hitched momentarily up onto his toes, and Matt can already feel his hard on through his pants, hot against his thigh.

“Well, yeah. We’re not all blind.”

Foggy laughs, tipping his head back, and Matt can _feel_ it. Fucking gorgeous. “You’ve got a smart mouth. Let’s see how long you can keep it up, huh? Come here.”

“Wait,” Matt says, and hears Jamal falter. “Strip first.”

Foggy hums in approval and Jamal sucks in a breath. Matt half expects him to make another jab — _What, will I_ sound _different when I’m naked?_ — but he doesn’t. He just unbuttons his shirt and lets it drop to floor. His shoes had already been left by the front door, but getting out of his pants is still a fumbling affair, awkward and loud. Matt wonders how heated his skin would be if he pressed a hand to his face — whether he’s embarrassed to be getting undressed under their scrutiny, because Matt _is_ scrutinising him, even if he can’t see. 

“How’s he look?” Matt asks, casual, and there’s an uptick in Jamal’s heartbeat.

“Let’s just say I made a good call with this one, buddy,” Foggy says. 

Matt’s hands twitch. “Let me touch him?” he asks, and Foggy kisses his shoulder.

“Of course. Here, Jamal. Stand in front of him.”

Jamal moves quickly, eagerly, and it’s only seconds before Matt can feel his breath, the warmth coming off his body. Standing between him and Foggy, Matt is overwhelmed in the best possible way.

“Is he hard?” Matt knows he is — he can fucking _smell_ it — but he’s not about to ruin the fun.

“Oh, yeah,” Foggy says, and takes Matt by his wrist, guides his hand to Jamal’s cock, and Jamal startles with a hiss.

Matt’s lips curl and he strokes upwards in one lazy pull. “Big boy,” he comments, and the noise Jamal makes is odd, strangled, utterly delicious. “Something you want to say?”

“Nn…no,” Jamal grinds out on a pant. 

“‘No’ what?” Foggy asks, at the same time as Matt tightens his grip on Jamal’s cock, digs his thumbnail into the slit hard enough to make Jamal whine.

“ _Sir_ ,” he says, and Matt can tell how tensely he’s holding himself, like he can’t decide whether to rock into the touch or not, even though it’s got to hurt. _God_. “No, sir.”

“That’s good,” Foggy runs his hand down Jamal’s side, soothing in the wake of the pain. “It’s a shame you couldn’t get it on the first try. Isn’t it, Matt?” He turns to Matt, ghosts the fingers of his other hand against the small of Matt’s back. “Think you’ll be able to teach him a lesson?”

A spark of arousal licks up Matt’s spine. “ _Yes_.”

“Good. Warm him up with your hand first.”

Matt doesn’t need telling twice. “Stand with your palms flat against the wall,” he says. “Ass out, back arched.”

It takes a few moments for Jamal to get into position — just when Matt thinks he’s probably got it, Foggy says, “Spread your legs a little. Shoulder width apart. That’s it,” and Jamal is breathing out harshly through his nose, his chest rising and falling rapidly. Even just _standing_ there in anticipation is doing things for him, and that’s…yeah. That’s _definitely_ doing things for Matt.

He runs his hand firmly down Jamal’s body, kneading into his lower back with his knuckles to get him to accentuate the arch of it a bit further. Then, when all the signals show that Jamal has begun to settle, Matt delivers the first blow. Jamal gasps, head dropping, and Matt waits for a few seconds, just to enjoy the way everything ratchets higher; adrenaline surging, the almost simultaneous jump of all three of their pulses. 

When Matt spanks him again, the swing is faster, and when he pulls away he lets his nails scratch against the skin. He tries to keep the pattern uneven — knows it’ll be most effective if Jamal doesn’t know which hits are going to really hurt — but he can’t bring himself to hold back. At some point, Foggy moves to stand just behind him, resting his hands on Matt’s hips, his presence grounding and warm.

“Slow down,” he murmurs in Matt’s ear, and Matt sucks in a breath, lets himself feel the pressure of Foggy against his back. His arm falls back to his side. “He’s gorgeous,” Foggy tells Matt. “You know how many times his knees almost buckled? And God, the look on his face. I bet he could come at any moment.”

“I won’t,” Jamal manages.

Matt tilts his head, thoughtful. “I’ll hold you to that,” he says. “Foggy?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you suck him off?”

He’s rewarded with a grin, pressed against his shoulder. “God, yes. You want me to get the paddle?”

“Yes, please.”

Jamal whimpers and Matt hears his hands curl into fists against the wall as Foggy walks across the room, grabs the paddle from the box at the foot of the bed. 

“Give us your safewords, Jamal,” he says, once he’s given it to Matt.

“Green,” Jamal breathes, and Foggy must do something to reward him, because the pitch of his voice is higher when he continues, “Yellow. Red.”

“Matt?”

Matt swallows, remembering what he’d said to Foggy: _Make me repeat them. Don’t let me forget them._

“Green, yellow, red.”

Foggy drops to his knees in front of Jamal, and Jamal is gasping before Foggy even gets his mouth on him: “Oh God, oh _fuck_.”

“Make it fifteen,” Foggy says, and Matt knows that it’s for his benefit rather than Jamal’s — better for there to be a limit on the number if Foggy’s not going to be able to talk Matt back down — and he’s hit with a wave of grateful affection. 

“If you come, this stops. You understand?” he says, and soaks in the moment when Jamal steels himself, readjusting his position, taking several deep and even breaths. 

“Yes sir,” he says.

“Count for us,” Matt tells him, and doesn’t wait another second before bringing the paddle down with a _crack_ against Jamal’s ass. 

“ _Shit_ ,” Jamal’s foot scuffs against the floor, like he had wanted to stamp it but caught himself just in time, and Matt can hear Foggy licking along the length of his cock before taking him fully into his mouth. 

“What was that?” Matt asks, tapping the paddle lightly against his skin while Jamal catches his breath.

“ _One_ , ugh. Fuck. One, sir.”

Matt can’t help laughing, and knows that Foggy’s struggling not to do the same. “Good enough,” he says, then spanks him again, harder. Jamal rocks forward, sinking deeper into Foggy’s mouth, and lets out another string of curses that ends with a ground out, “ _Two_ , sir.”

By the time they’re nearing the end, Jamal’s toes are curled into the carpet, and rather than swearing he’s pleading around weak, hitching breaths. “M’gonna come,” he says, between thirteen and fourteen. “Please, Foggy, sir, I’m gonna come—”

“Foggy,” Matt says, but Foggy’s already one step ahead — he doesn’t pull off, but judging by the aborted noise Jamal makes, circles the base of Jamal’s cock tightly with his fingers. “You’re doing so well,” he says. “Just two more. Think you can manage that?”

Jamal’s head thrashes from side to side, but Matt thinks that’s mostly to do with the fact that Foggy has just started to deep throat him, rather than in response to the question.

“I think you can,” Matt tells him, and fucking hell, the noises Foggy’s making… “I think you can be good for us, hm?”

Jamal groans, and Matt can tell from how it chokes off near the end that he’s started to cry. “Yes sir. Green, yes, yes. Please.”

The words are hardly out of his mouth before Matt’s bringing the paddle back down on his ass, and Foggy moans around the cock that must be hitting the back of his throat, and Matt is so hard it hurts. “Good boy,” he says, as Jamal stutters out the number, not even sure which of them he’s praising, but thinking it’s probably both. 

After the final blow Matt drops the paddle and grabs hold of Jamal’s hips, wrenching him back and out of Foggy’s mouth. 

“Fuck him,” Foggy says, almost immediately, his voice hoarse. “Matt, I want to see you fuck him.”

“Jesus, Foggy,” Matt says, even as he reaches down to palm Jamal’s heated ass, dips a finger between his cheeks to press at his hole. _God_ , yes. “Get on the bed,” he says, but can’t resist pushing a little further, the dry tip of his finger forcing the muscle to give. Then he steps back, and Jamal stumbles, limbs uncoordinated.

“Easy,” Foggy gets to his feet and reaches out, catching hold of Jamal’s upper arms. “Christ, my knees.”

Jamal snorts. “Your _knees_?”

“Ah,” Foggy grins. “Sorry, was that insensitive?”

Somehow, Jamal manages to produce a kind of growl, but Foggy just laughs while Matt rolls his eyes. “Stop antagonising him, Foggy. And Jamal — _bed_.”

“Would ya look at that,” Foggy says as Jamal climbs onto the bed, sliding his hands into Matt’s hair and angling his face for a kiss. “Coming into your own, much?”

Matt feels his face redden. “Too much?” he asks.

“Nah, dude,” Foggy breathes, nipping at Matt’s bottom lip. “You’re a natural.”

They kiss, then, and Matt feels his chest expand with something that it takes him a few moments to recognise as pride. 

“Now, please,” Foggy says when they break apart, “at the very least rub yourself off against that boy’s ass because there are some visuals that I just _deserve_ , okay?”

Matt feels giddy, and knows the smile on his face is ridiculously wide. “You got it,” he says, and Foggy reaches around to slap him playfully on the ass.

“That’s the spirit. You want me to tie him up?”

Matt hesitates. He imagines the sound of skin rubbing against rope, of a body straining, strapped down. The legs of a chair scraping against the floor.

He shakes his head. “No. He can hold himself still.” He twists his neck, calls over his shoulder, “Can’t you, Jamal?”

Jamal just answers with a huff of air and a squeak of bedsprings as he rolls his hips.

“Okay then.” Matt reaches for the button on his pants, but Foggy stops him with a hand on his arm.

“Leave them on,” he says. “He’ll feel it more.”

Matt’s eyelids flicker at that, and he feels his cock twitch. “ _Foggy_.”

“I know, I know,” Foggy says. “I have all the best ideas. Plus, I love it when you come in your pants. Seriously. It’s good fucking stuff.”

On the bed, Jamal makes a quiet, desperate sound. “You guys just gonna stand there chatting all night or what?” he says, voice muffled against the comforter. 

Matt quirks an eyebrow, and doesn’t turn away from Foggy. “It’s just like you to pick a mouthy one.”

“Yeah, well,” Foggy shrugs. “I figured you’d appreciate the vocals.”

“ _Matt_ ,” Jamal says, and he’s definitely at the end of his tether now, struggling with Matt’s order not to move. “Please. _Please_.”

Matt tries to take his time walking across the room, but in the end just hopes that Jamal doesn’t notice how he speeds up on the last couple of paces before getting onto the bed and straddling his thighs.

When he leans forward, the material of his pants brushes against Jamal’s paddled ass and Jamal hisses.

“I don’t know if you were listening, but I’m not going to fuck you anymore,” Matt says, conversationally. “You’re just going to lie very still while I get myself off, okay?”

“But,” Jamal says. “But I _want_ you to fuck me.”

“Oh yeah?” Matt says, bracing his arms on either side of Jamal and grinding down for the first time. He can’t help smiling when Jamal whimpers in pain. _Yes_. Yes, yes, yes. “Maybe you should’ve thought about that before you started sassing me and Foggy, huh?”

“Shit,” Jamal’s fingers scramble for purchase, and Matt hears Foggy sigh and his zipper come undone. “I’m, I’m sorry, okay? I—”

“Too late,” Matt says, sweetly, and Jamal _sobs_. “Try and keep your mouth shut now, hm?” Another deliberate roll, another whine. “Maybe you’ll stop getting yourself into trouble.”

“You know what,” Foggy says, and the bed dips as he joins them. “Maybe I can help him out…”

Matt feels Jamal’s position being adjusted as Foggy tugs him, gets him to prop himself up on his forearms so he won’t strain his neck when — _ah_ — Foggy feeds his cock between his lips. 

“There we go,” Foggy says, and Matt’s hit with a surge of desire so strong that suddenly he’s thrusting hard against Jamal’s ass, hips snapping back and forth. “Oh, Jesus, _yes_ , Matt, keep doing that,” Foggy tells him, as if Matt has any intention of stopping, and Matt realises that the pained, needy noises Jamal can’t stop making must be doing wonders for Foggy’s blowjob.

“Don’t come, Fog,” Matt manages on a gasp, because he wants his hands to be on Foggy when it happens, goddamnit. 

“Fuck. Seriously? God. Okay, okay. But you — Matt, you come. I wanna see you come, Matt.”

Matt bites his lip hard and reaches out, fists his hand in Jamal’s tight, corkscrew curls, and shoves his head down until he’s gagging and fighting so hard not to rut against the covers that Matt can feel the strain of it. 

It’s so good. It’s so, so—

Matt’s mouth goes slack as his orgasm slams through him, his movements stuttering, his body seizing. For a moment, his brain just…whites out, goes offline, and all Matt is is a trembling mass, limbs quaking with sensation. It’s hardly even over before he’s being hauled forwards, Foggy’s hands on his face.

“Oh my God,” Foggy says, lips falling to Matt’s temple, the corner of his eye, his jaw. “Oh my _God_ ,” and then he’s pulling away again, easing out of Jamal’s mouth with a groan. 

Matt shudders, still chasing the tail end of his orgasm, and bends to press a kiss behind Jamal’s ear. He runs his hands down his back until he can palm at his ass, rubbing in circles over the raw, heated flesh, until Jamal’s squirming, his erection digging into the mattress, openly crying into the heels of his hands. 

“You want to come?” he asked, and his voice is fucking _wrecked_ , but it’s okay because he doesn’t think Jamal’s picking up on that right now.

“Y-yes. Sir. I want to come, I want to, I—”

“Then you keep doing what you’re doing, baby,” Matt tells him, before heaving himself off the bed.

Jamal makes a noise of panicked confusion, hands flying out to try and grab Matt. “What?”

Matt smiles. “Like this,” he says, and places his hand on the small of Jamal’s back and _pushes_ , so that Jamal’s cock drags against the sheets. “I want you to keep doing that, okay? And once Foggy’s come, so can you.”

“What if...what if I can’t help…”

Matt takes pity on him and rubs lightly at his flank, listens to the way his sigh shakes its way out of him. “If you get too close, you stop. Then, you start again. Understand?”

“Nn. Yes.”

“Good,” Matt says, and moves away to snatch the lube from Foggy’s bedside table.

Foggy’s waiting, sitting on the edge of bed, and it’s so...both of them, being so obedient. If Matt hadn’t just come, he knows he’d be well on his way to getting hard again.

“I want to hear you,” Matt tells him. “Both of you, getting yourselves off.”

Foggy takes the lube from him, uncaps it, and even though his dick is already wet with saliva, he's generous with the amount he pours into his palm. “Okay,” he says. The noise of his hand coming into contact with his skin is smooth and slick and filthy, and Foggy grunts, quickly adjusting his pace to match Jamal’s.

“Yeah,” Matt breathes, stepping closer. “That’s it.”

“I want—” Foggy starts, tipping his head back. “Ah, Matt.”

“What do you want?” Matt asks, because whatever it is, he wants to give it. Ten times over, he wants to. “Foggy, tell me.”

“ _Matt_ ,” he stretches out with his free hand, grabs Matt’s wrist, his thumb skating over the pulse point. Then he says, voice suddenly firm, unyielding, “Slap me.”

Matt’s heart jumps, and Jamal grinds to an abrupt halt on the bed. They’d talked about it — it’s not a limit, for Foggy. He’d even showed Matt how hard he likes it, how much time between each hit. 

“Now,” Foggy says, and Matt takes a second to enjoy the delicious thrill that’s tingling through him, before slapping Foggy across the face.

Jamal moans and starts rutting against the sheets again, while Foggy pants, his hips actually leaving the mattress as he jerks into his fist. “Again, Matt.”

And again, and again. 

Foggy’s cheek is soft beneath Matt’s palm, and his thumb catches against his lip every time he pulls away. The sound of it is addictive, each ringing _smack_ accompanied by a soft, open noise from the back of Foggy's throat.

“Yes,” he hisses. “ _Yes_ , Matt.”

He comes with Matt’s hand on his face, twisting his head to suck his thumb into his mouth, holding it there, teeth digging into his skin. 

Matt finds himself sinking to his knees without even thinking about it, slotting himself into the space between Foggy's legs and nosing at where his fly's undone, where he's still got himself in hand. 

Foggy opens his mouth, lets him go, and Matt leans in as Jamal lets out a high pitched curse. His fingers reach across to seize at Foggy's hip, tethering himself, and Matt catches hold of them as well, smooths his thumb gently over his knuckles. That's when Jamal comes; keening, toes curling.

Afterwards, the thrum of arousal is still there, in all of them, but it’s slowly becoming muted. Jamal yawns against Foggy’s back and Foggy slowly stretches, his joints popping.

Eventually, they all end up piled in the bed. Foggy half-heartedly suggests changing the sheets, but is overruled when Jamal lets out a noise like a wounded bear, which only really ceases when Matt opens a bottle of lotion and starts massaging it into his ass. After that, the only noises they get out of him are contented rumbles, and Foggy hides his smiles in Matt’s shoulder.

"Good?" he asks, low and damp against Matt's skin. 

Matt skims his way up Jamal's spine, feeling him relax blissfully under the attention. 

He thinks about how differently it could have gone and lets him sink back against Foggy without removing his hands from Jamal's skin. Foggy holds him, touches him firmly and surely, and Matt tilts his head so he can kiss Foggy's cooling face.

"So good," he says.


End file.
